


Roadhouse Blues

by one_red_sock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belly Kink, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 09:43:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_red_sock/pseuds/one_red_sock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jo hasn't seen the boys in three years and much has changed, but some things never do. Just one night alone with the Winchesters at the Roadhouse. Morning comes too soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roadhouse Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little full-figured Jo appreciation for someone who's pretty damned cool to me. :D

Jo hears the growl of the Impala from a mile away. Closing time at the Roadhouse has come and gone, her mom safely home to bed with a bottle of Jack. Tomorrow – well, today – is Sunday, when the Harvelles usually sleep in, so no one will have to be up early. Good. Jo has no intention of sleeping, anyway.

She smoothes her hair, adjusts her t-shirt to show off the impressive cleavage she’s finally inherited from Ellen. At sixteen, the last time she’d seen the boys, Jo was still coltish limbs and a girl’s figure. Now, though? Three years past? She’s made a point of filling out. She likes her beer and bar food, and it shows in every proud curve. She wears her jeans cut low and tight, and her shirts snug. Leaves little to the imagination and does wonders for the tipping situation, really.

Dean had called just as the sun was setting, voice sanded rough and dripping innuendo. _Me and Sam, we’re headin’ to your neck of the woods. You got time, Jo-Jo? Your ma’s not gonna get the shotgun out after us, is she?_

Ellen won’t find out, not if Jo has her way.

Pressing her nose to the window, she sees their headlights cutting down the empty road like the eyes of a dragon. When the dust settles, two dark shapes get out of the car and don’t come into clear view until they’re washed in the light of a single neon sign, left on as a beacon. 

Dean is everything she remembers, but better. He’s six-feet of swagger in a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, shit-kickin’ boots and crooked grin. He’s barrel-chested and bow-legged and God _damn_ , he’s got a nice ass.

Jo tears through the door and leaps at him, landing with an ‘oof’ from Dean, caught in his arms. He has her tight, laughing in her ear. “Hey, baby. Lookit you, all grown up. Not so little anymore, huh?”

“You got a problem with that?” Jo says, and from the way his eyes drop to her rack, no, he has not a single problem with it.

“Hey, Jo.” Sam is standing behind them now, hands shoved in his pockets. Not much has changed with him, except everything. He’s gotten taller, if that was even possible, and despite his best efforts at slouching, his shoulders are unmistakably broad over sidewinder-narrow hips. He’s more rawboned than she remembers, but when he smiles, his dimples pop and Jo just melts.

She squirms out of Dean’s arms. “Hey, Sammy.” He lets her call him ‘Sammy.’ It’s an honor and she knows it. She tugs his elbow and the three of them move into the Roadhouse, out of the August night.

They play the perfunctory game of catch-up: yeah, the boys are still hunting; yeah, so is Jo, behind Ellen’s back; sorry ‘bout your dad; how’s your ma. It’s busy-talk. They all know where they want this to go but there doesn’t seem to be a reason to hurry. They’ve got the bar to themselves, all the beer they can drink and when Jo plugs in the jukebox, they don’t have to talk anymore.

They set up a game of pool and Dean breaks. He’s a shark and so is Jo, but it annoys them both when Sam rolls up his shirtsleeves and smoothly kicks their asses three games in a row.

A dozen beers and several shots of tequila later, ‘Honky Tonk Woman’ wails through the Roadhouse and Jo thinks it’s a good time to get her groove on.

She wants the Winchesters’ eyes all on her; she wants the spotlight. Her hips push through the air and her thighs stroke together and the unwise buzz of alcohol edges out caution. Dean had popped her cherry years ago and she’s never had Sam, but she knows he tastes a little like licorice.

Dean sidles up behind her and puts big hands on her hips, sliding thumbs up under the edge of her shirt. He sways with her, his half-hard cock clearly pressing the small of her back, tall as he is. Sam watches, pink hitting his cheeks over those fucking dimples.

“You ain’t afraid of nothin’ anymore, are you, Jo-Jo?” Dean says.

“Not afraid of you.” But she’d be lying if she wasn’t made brave by beer and wild abandon. Dean’s dangerous because she’ll probably do anything he asks her to right now, feeling him all warm and muscled, his hands rucking up her shirt. Gun-callused fingers knead into her tender belly where it swells over the waist of her jeans. There’s enough liquid in her to almost slosh when she moves. Feels so good when he palms its weight, gives it a squeeze.

Purposeful, always moving…Dean’s hands.

Jo’s gaze flickers to Sam and she knows she should be at least _slightly_ embarrassed, but she’s not. His oddly slanted eyes stare with cat-like persistence, unblinking, almost lazy, certainly drunk. She could never figure out what color they were, mosaic bits of blue and green and brown. Those fucking eyes.

“You still thirsty, Jo?” Dean murmurs, nuzzling through her hair.

She’s not, couldn’t possibly be, but she nods because the freckled hands on her middle have cruised up to her breasts and are busily working their way under the support of her bra. Fingertips brush upwards and her nipples tingle to sharp buds.

“Sammy, get the lady another beer, will ya?”

Sam says nothing but his grin widens and he bumps off the edge of the pool table to disappear behind the bar. Jo hears the clink of glass, a hiss and a tinny clatter as the bottletop drops to the floor. He rounds back into Jo’s view and presses the bottle to her cheek.

“Need help?” he asks.

Jo nods again, swipes her tongue over her lips. As much as Dean might be running the show, she’ll get her say. Sam rolls the edge of the bottle over her mouth before tipping it back so she can drink, leaving her hands free to grab his plaid shirt, pull at its buttons. She can drink them both of them under the table, and she’ll prove it too.

Her throat works, swallow after swallow, and the beer fills her belly with cold and fizz. Sam is watchful and tilts back the bottle when she needs to breathe or giggle out a burp. He takes a sip or two before letting her finish it off, but her waistband is digging in and she wriggles until Dean deftly plucks at the closure. The pressure releases with a pop of the snap, and she can’t help but moan. His clever, clever hands work over her bloated little belly, turning the discomfort of the stretched skin into bliss.

Sam is watching, and there’s need in his eyes.

“Take off your shirt,” she says. He blinks, vaguely uncertain, but when Jo feigns a pout, Sam’s long fingers play down the front of his boring plaid button-down. “Holy shit, where’ve you been hiding that?”

Dean chuckles in her ear. Sam lets his bangs brush his lashes, like he’s modest but damn, he has nothing to be modest about. Jo pulls him by the hem of his open shirt and runs her palms over the cuts and ridges of his torso, traces a scar or two. She leans in close and her puffy belly bears down on his lean thighs.

He’s hard, too; a glance confirms it. He kisses her, urgent and full of tongue, inhales and nips at her bottom lip. He still tastes like licorice.

“She likes it when you touch her belly,” Dean says, and he’s not wrong. “It’s a gorgeous belly. Every bit of you is gorgeous, Jo-Jo. Every last inch.”

“Yeah?” Sam pulls back and Jo lets out a wanting sound. “You mean like this?” His fingertips are smoother than Dean’s, a scholar’s hands. He cups the mound of her middle but he has to stoop – he’s an easy foot taller than Jo – so he lowers to his knees. And from there, he grins over her roundness and exhales warm breath across her skin.

Dean lightly grips the cushioning along her sides, mumbles into her neck. “Use your tongue, Sammy. That okay, Jo?” 

Like she’d say no. As if. She twines her hands through Sam’s shaggy mop and smiles. His tongue darts out and flicks at her navel, making her wet and dizzy all at once. He begins placing kisses lower and lower.

Under Dean’s firm guidance, her jeans slide down her hips, the denim scraping. She feels release as the cooler air hits her skin and Dean kneads Jo’s ample backside through her panties, all the while playing soft words like “so beautiful” and “perfect” and “fucking hotter than sin” into her ear.

Sneaky Sammy, he slips two fingers into his mouth, getting them good and slick, before curling them through her tangle of tawny hair to tremble at her clit. 

Jo moans, knees suddenly liquid. Too much booze and moonlight and _them_ , the God-damned Winchesters.

Dean’s got a finger on her pulse and he’s grinning teeth and tongue against her neck. “That’s it, Sammy, that’s the way. Keep on, keep on.”

And Sam does, too. Keeps up with the massaging and kissing, and Jo’s heart wants to burst from her chest until finally, _finally_ , she comes. Back arching, Dean’s strong arms holding her up, she pulses into Sam and the beer in her belly rocks and presses everything tight and she bites her own lip until she tastes blood.

She’s gasping, and Dean whispers, “That’s our girl. Our Jo.”

 

The boys leave before sunrise, as the world is just coming awake. She sends them off with tequila and Coke and sandwiches for the road, a handful of quarters, some bullets and bandaids. They promise to stop by more often but Jo knows better than to hold them to that.

Dean tucks a blonde curl behind Jo’s ear, kisses her forehead. Sam just smiles, a shared secret. The Impala evaporates into the milky light of dawn as Jo waves.

She misses them already.


End file.
